


Chicken Soup for the Soul

by PipMer



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Gift Fic, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-30
Updated: 2013-06-30
Packaged: 2017-12-16 15:31:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/863626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PipMer/pseuds/PipMer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Life is what happens while you're busy making other plans.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chicken Soup for the Soul

**Author's Note:**

  * For [prettybirdy979](https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettybirdy979/gifts).



> This is a gift for my friend prettybirdy979, who was sick a couple of nights ago. I decided to write her a fluffy sherlock/john sickfic, but since I'm the world's slowest writer, she probably isn't even sick anymore. I still hope you enjoy!

_Cough.  Cough, cough._ *Throat clearing*.  _Cough, HACK, cough._

_”_ Achoo! _”    Groan._

*Sigh*  Wonderful.  Just wonderful.  And today of all days.

 

 _Knock, knock._ “Alright in there?”

 

 _HACK, HACK._ *Nose blowing*.

 

 “Fine.  Go away.”  Voice rough and raspy.

 

“No need to get into a strop.  Do you need anything?  Paracetamol?  Kleenexes?”

 

“I need you to leave me alone.”

 

He rolls his eyes.  “You do remember what today is, yes?”

 

Silence.

 

_Of course._

“I may have a bit of a fever.  Sorry.”

 

“Alright then.  We’ll make plans another time.”  There’s no response. 

 

 

He sighs heavily.  Despite the fact that he’s always known his flatmate isn’t a sentimental man, a pang of disappointment settles in his gut.  It shouldn’t be at all surprising that the date has slipped his mind.  Although he was hoping that this would be different.

 

He shuffles over to his chair and plops down, grabbing his laptop along the way.  He logs on and finds the bookmarked website.  He stares morosely at the screen and allows a bit of self-pity to invade his thinking process.  He had made plans months ago for this occasion; leave it to his partner to muck things up for him – them.  For them. 

 

He sighs as he clicks on the ‘cancel reservation’ tab.  At least everything is refundable, thanks to Mycroft.  The man did have his uses, at times, as much as it pained him to admit it.

 

He picks up the discarded newspaper and settles in, one ear cocked towards the bedroom door for any further sounds of distress.  Hearing none, his shoulders relax as he peruses the pages for interesting criminal activity.  Now that he’s apparently going to be in London for the next few days, he might as well make good use of his time and troll for promising cases.

 

Several hours pass without a sound from the next room.  Concern coils hot and heavy in his belly.  Perhaps the ‘bit of fever’ has developed into something more serious.  He turns off the telly and walks over to the closed door.  He takes the liberty of turning the knob and stepping into the bedroom.  _Their_ bedroom.  He has every right to be here without an engraved invitation.  He steps over the discarded shirt and trousers as he makes his way over to the bed.  An unmoving lump lies smack dab in the middle of it, swaddled in several layers of blankets.  When the temperature outside is pushing twenty-eight degrees.

 

“Christ,’ he whispers as he sits down and places the back of his hand against a clammy forehead.  For all that the man’s teeth are chattering, the heat radiates off him like an oven. 

 

“You’re burning up,” he remarks as he gently palpitates the neck and throat for signs of swelling.

 

Impatient hands try to push him away, but he’s used to this sort of behaviour.  When his flatmate is sick, his irritability notches up a hundredfold, but at this point he knows how to handle all manifestations of his somewhat cantankerous personality.

 

“Just the flu,” he’s told as he sweeps damp hair away from the forehead.  “Just need… t’ ride it out.  M’fine.”

 

“That developed fast,” he remarks as he cards his fingers soothingly through soft strands.  “Do you feel nauseous at all?”

 

A shrug, bony shoulder bumping into his arm.  “Not right now, no.”

 

Fingers continue to stroke hair and scalp.  “We’ll try one tablet for now, then try for a second if you keep it down.”  He leans down, only to be halted by a hand weakly pushing him away. 

 

“Contagious.”

 

He smiles.  “I’ve already been exposed, it’ll make no difference now.  But you already know that, don’t you.”  He leans down and places a soft kiss on the feverish forehead.  “I’ll be right back.”

 

He returns three minutes later.  He gently manoeuvres his patient into the upright position, then hands him the tablet of paracetamol and a glass of water. 

 

“Just a small sip,” he warns as he guides the shaking hand, holding it steady.  Glassy,  unfocussed eyes meet his own as the man uncharacteristically obeys. 

 

“Thank you,” is muttered as the hold on the water is relinquished.

 

“You’re welcome.  Just rest now.”  A pat to the shoulder, a kiss to the corner of that lush red mouth, and he leaves his friend to his slumber.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Four hours later, a second paracetamol has been ingested, two bags of groceries have been obtained, new reservations have been attended to, and a pot of hearty chicken soup is boiling on the hob.  Home-made chicken soup, mind you, with stock created from actual chicken bones, not pre-canned processed preservative-laden broth.  And he hadn’t even needed any help from Mrs Hudson, thank you very much.  He’s filled his quota of domestic duties for one day, he thinks. 

 

His patient is ensconced on the sofa, wrapped in a fluffy duvet.  He had stumbled out of the bedroom an hour ago, along with the surprising pronouncement that he was hungry.  The chicken stock had already been started, with the intention of refrigerating it overnight, not for consumption that evening.  But if food is wanted, that is what will be delivered.  Appetite in a sick person is a very good sign.

 

A tray with a bowl of soup and saltine crackers is placed across his lap.  He closes his eyes and leans into the rising steam, relishing the savoury aroma.  A low rumble escapes from underneath the duvet, and he places his hands across his stomach, flush spreading across his neck and face.  Wordlessly, he picks up a spoon and keeps his head down as he lets the salty taste and warmth suffuse his being. 

 

Fifteen minutes later, the bowl is completely empty.  He wipes his mouth with the proffered napkin, and finally makes eye contact with his caretaker, who is watching him with an amused expression from his armchair.  The telly flickers in the background, the sound muted so low that it barely registers.  The corners of Sherlock’s mouth lift in a small smile.

 

“Thank you, Sherlock,” John says softly.  “That was lovely.”

 

Sherlock nods.  He rises from his seat and walks over to lift the tray from John’s lap, leaning down for a quick kiss as he does.  “My pleasure,” he whispers, and smiles when a shiver having nothing to do with fever chills travels through John’s body.   “Can you tolerate seconds?”

 

John shakes his head.  “Not yet, I don’t think.  In the morning, certainly.”

 

Sherlock rinses out the bowl and spoon, leaving them sitting in the sink to be dealt with in the morning.  He transfers the rest of the soup into a large pot and places it in the refrigerator.  He hurriedly wipes up the little mess that was created with the preparation, then saunters out into the sitting area, hands stuffed casually in his pockets.  He stands awkwardly on the other side of the coffee side across from John, restlessly fidgeting on the balls of his feet.   John looks up at him, eyebrow raised.

 

Sherlock clears his throat.  “So, do you want… should I sleep upstairs tonight?”

 

John gives him the smallest of smiles and a minute shake of his head.  “That won’t be necessary.  I’d like you to join me, if that’s alright.”  He stands up and lets the duvet fall off his shoulders.  He holds out a hand in invitation. 

 

Sherlock accepts.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

John is still radiating heat, but it’s not nearly as bad as it was a few hours ago.  Sherlock spoons up against him, bare chest to bare back.  Their rings clink together as fingers entwine, hands clasped over John’s stomach.  John thoughtfully traces Sherlock’s band with his thumb.

 

“I’m sorry I forgot our wedding anniversary,” John murmurs softly.  “Our first one, too.  I’m such a cad.”

 

Sherlock nuzzles John’s neck and places a soft kiss on the nape.  “It’s no problem.  Seems like this year’s a wash anyway.  You can make it up to me next year.”

 

John smiles into his pillow.  “So what plans did you make and have to cancel?”

 

A huff of air exhales into John’s hair.  “I said it’s no problem.  Everything was refundable, so there’s no need to worry.”

 

“Sherlock.”

 

Sherlock sighs heavily.  “I reserved three nights at that bed and breakfast in Cornwall you were so enchanted with during that one case.  The one  you titled ‘The Salacious Scandal of Old Scratch’s Foot’, or something equally ridiculous.  I also had tickets for the Minack Theatre.  ‘Waiting for Godot’. “  His arms tighten around John’s chest.  “But as I said, everything was refundable.  I just rescheduled for two weekends from now, when ‘The Marriage of Figaro’ is playing.”

 

John starts to giggle.  Sherlock pulls away, frowning at the back of John’s head.  “What’s so funny?”

 

“You.  Trying to be all romantic for our first anniversary.  It’s very sweet, but nothing I’d have ever expected from you.”

 

There’s a brief pause before a soft, tentative “Not good?” floats into the air.

 

John hears the vulnerability in the tone, and immediately rolls over to face Sherlock and cup a reassuring hand on his cheek.  He smiles brightly, eyes shining with something other than fever.  “On the contrary, Sherlock.  It’s very, very good.  Thank you.  That was… very thoughtful.”

 

Sherlock grins.  He takes John’s hand and ghosts a kiss across his knuckles.  “Just make sure nothing happens between now and then to stop us from going this time.”

 

John huffs in exasperated happiness.  “I’ll do my best,” he promises.  He places a gentle kiss on Sherlock’s lips –

 

-and pulls back just in time to be seized by a violent sneeze, spewing germs all over Sherlock’s face.  John stares at him in mortification. 

 

Sherlock grimaces as he wipes the moisture off his face.  And John’s embarrassment immediately turns into hilarity, and he cannot stop laughing.  He continues to laugh as Sherlock falls out of bed in his haste to find a towel, stumbling around in the dark for several minutes before making it to the bathroom.  By the time Sherlock returns to bed, John is wiping away tears streaming down his cheeks.  He hiccoughs as he gradually brings himself under control. 

 

“Sorry,” he gasps helplessly, “sorry.  Oh god Sherlock… life with you is never boring, even when I’m bedridden.”   A wide yawn comes of nowhere, threatening to crack his face in two.  “Too much excitement.  Christ, I’m knackered.  Come here, you.”  He spreads his arms wide, and Sherlock’s annoyance softens into affection as he slips into the embrace.

 

“I just hope you don’t get sick now too.  Both of us sick at the same time would not be good.”

 

Sherlock yawns, burrowing his face into John’s chest.  “Whatever happens, we’ll deal with it.  Sleep now,  doctor.  The sooner you recover, the sooner we can properly celebrate.”

 

John chuckles as he presses a kiss into his husband’s curls.  “Wise words from the wisest man I’ve ever known.  I think I’ll take that advice.”

 

A comfortable hush quickly descends upon the two men as sleep insidiously threads its tendrils into the empty spaces of their minds, filling them with expectant dreams of the holiday that is waiting for them – waiting for two extraordinary men to once again stride the Cornwall coast. 

**Author's Note:**

> The Minack theatre is an actual open-air theatre in Cornwall. It bills itself as the most famous open-air theatre in Britain, possibly in the world. I actually went to their website and picked two plays that are on this summer's schedule. 'Waiting for Godot' actually ended on June 28, and "The Marriage of Figaro" is scheduled for July 15 - 19.
> 
>  
> 
> You can see their website [here](http://www.minack.com/index.htm)


End file.
